Sky
by Liebling
Summary: ‘But you already were empty. So it was no matter, really. You aged. And you tried to tell yourself you were still young. But the thing was, you weren't.’ Bellatrix fic. Odd. Very odd, actually. Sad.


Authors Note: Something. I just need to write...anything...  
  
Disclaimer: All belongs to JK Rowling. :-)  
  
This is a fic about Bellatrix Lestrange and her husband Rudolphus Lestrange. It's quite odd and I made Rudolphus a pub worker, because I didn't like the idea of him working for the Dark Side.  
  
If any of this is anti-canon then uh, deal with it? This is merely me rambling and trying to portray her life as I thought it was lived.  
  
:-)  
  
~*~  
  
You live a life of nothingness. A life comprised of longing and yearning and wanting. You were a child then. But you grew up. And you go through school, and you get mediocre grades and do mediocre things. And no one cares quite enough to tell you to 'wake up.' And if they did, it wouldn't matter anyway.  
  
So you stay young forever.  
  
You get out of Hogwarts and you meet a man. And he is not amazing. He works for a pub and he curses like a sailor. But he says he loves you. So it's okay. You would have gotten someone better, but he's okay. And you'll live in poverty, but you'll still be living. And your nonexistent dreams will fall. You marry young, and it was the best wedding you could afford. He tied a twine ring with a flower in the center on your finger, and you were supposed to be happy. It was your wedding after all.  
  
But you weren't.  
  
But you plastered on a smile.  
  
So you lived in a wrecked cottage that mustn't have been much money. And you live together alone. And it still doesn't quite matter.   
  
Then you have a child, for even if he was a poor man he still needed an heir.   
  
You had a son. A son with stunning emerald green eyes and tufts of chocolate colored hair. And he was far too handsome to live in poverty.  
  
Your husband was pleased and he was set on teaching the boy how to play Quidditch. The only problem was he was always working at the pub. And you stayed home alone with your son.  
  
And it was still not good.  
  
But when he came home from work he kissed your cheek, called you "darling" and tousled your son's hair. And then he went to sleep.  
  
It was awful and it wasn't a fairytale. Your account at Gringots was comprised of a few mere knuts and one gold galleon.  
  
But you didn't complain. Even if you wanted to.   
  
One night you looked at the stars in the sky with your toddler on your lap and you saw the ebony sky and glittering stars. And you were happy, for a second. Your son called you "Mummy" and you fed him a biscuit.  
  
And now it was not okay. Now it was below okay.  
  
So you woke your husband.  
  
And he said: "What's the matter, darling?"  
  
So you pulled him out to the porch and he looked at the sky and said: "Same sky as ever."  
  
But it wasn't.  
  
Or maybe you simply weren't the same person.  
  
And you just weren't fulfilled...and now it mattered.  
  
You owled your Father and told him and he said something along the lines of...well, nothing helpful. So you threw down the bottle of vodka and you just screamed.  
  
And it felt good. Even if it hurt your voice.  
  
Then you ran to your cousin's house and he said that he'd tell off your husband. Which did absolutely nothing for you.  
  
And you were irate.  
  
You couldn't blame it on anyone but yourself. Which further made you mad.  
  
So you left your cousin's house as the rain started to pour and that was just the way things were.  
  
You stood outside, the rain pouring on you as you covered your child's head with a ratty blanket. You looked at the sky.  
  
And it was gorgeous...and perfect...and you wanted that.  
  
So you ran off.  
  
Because you were crazed and mad. And you were still young, really.  
  
But you didn't really run off, you went back to your old house and were contented as always. And when your husband said: "How are you?"  
  
You said: "Okay." And nodded.  
  
He went to the pub.  
  
You stayed home.  
  
You lived.  
  
You were okay.  
  
Kind of.  
  
And the rain continued to pour. You tried to give your child the best you could, but things were difficult. The best you could do for him was a few biscuits a day and old water. And he slept on a pile of some of your old skirts and your husband's old nightshirts.  
  
And it was not pleasant.  
  
You cried yourself to sleep sometimes as you pulled the flannel up above your neck. Soft, gasping crying that left you feeling empty.  
  
But you already were empty.  
  
So it was no matter, really.  
  
You aged. And you tried to tell yourself you were still young. But the thing was, you weren't.  
  
Your old house had lost its charm and the flowers were rotting. Your child went off to Hogwarts and you kissed his pale forehead and said: "I don't want 'okay' to be good enough for you, you understand? Because I love you." And he nodded.  
  
And you wondered if he understood.  
  
Your husband's gray hair was long and pulled back in a green rubber band, and he worked in the pub saying hullo to the regulars.  
  
And he still kissed you on the cheek and called you darling.  
  
You still stayed at home, of course.  
  
You were hurting and in pain...and you were living.  
  
Sometimes your son would write you and he'd tell you about Hogwarts.  
  
"I did well Mummy." He'd say.   
  
But he was awful at Quidditch. Your husband had never gotten around to teaching him.  
  
Years passed. And you still tried to say you were young, in love, with a gorgeous family, a happy house, and not in poverty.  
  
But you still were.  
  
So you looked at the night sky. And it was still gorgeous and perfect and stunning...and it was all you used to be.  
  
And you joined the Dark Side for you were bored and it paid and that was it. And you hunted for blood and you went out for the kill. And you enjoyed it.  
  
Your son knew all of this for he was a smart little boy with big dreams and big green eyes. He asked many questions and you nodded.  
  
And your husband was fine too. You were still you, after all.  
  
And you worked hard at times. And you were still poor, of course.  
  
Because the Dark Lord does not keep his deals. And you should have known but you were never taught not to believe all you heard.  
  
And you continued doing his bidding and it was not fun.   
  
You fought.  
  
Your husband was still a worker at the pub and he hadn't changed.   
  
"I like poverty," he smiled, "I like the poor people."  
  
And you laughed. And it was not a nice laugh.   
  
You had him and he might as well have been nothing.  
  
You killed your cousin, too. And you laughed as well. And it didn't quite matter. Not quite. Everything was still okay. But it was not nice.  
  
And on the last day of your life you were out on the porch swing, a glass of ice water in your hand.  
  
And you were looking at the sky.  
  
It was charcoal colored and the stars glimmered and they shined. They did what they were made to do.  
  
For the first time in your life you were hungry. You were not hungry like that; you had just eaten a biscuit. You were hungry for dreams and aspirations and a wealthy husband and a little daughter, you wanted a manor and everything that money could buy…and some of which it couldn't.  
  
And you died that night.  
  
Because that was just the way it was.  
  
And right before you took your last breath you sort of thought it'd be nice if maybe...if maybe you hadn't just settled.  
  
Then you died.  
  
In your favorite old porch swing.  
  
Your husband came outside and saw you limp and lifeless and he was not scared. He picked up your pale hand and he kissed your cheek:  
  
"To the sky you go, Darling."  
  
For it was place fit for her.  
  
She was stunning.  
  
And so was the sky. 


End file.
